Dont know how to love you more
by Shelk
Summary: A study in relationships. Its a coming of age story,with Sherlock as the main character. Pairings: Sherlock/his work;Sherlock/drugs;Sherlock/his brain; Sherlock/John ; Sherlock/Mycroft; Moriarty/Sherlock s brain; Sherlock/The Woman are a couple of main semi-sexual relationships.
1. Introduction

_**Don`t know how to love you more.**_

* * *

**Summary:**_ The mysteries of Baker Street._

**Disclaimer:**_ Everything you recognize belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC who created a great,modern plot. Inspired by the acting of Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch...and Sherlock and John`s closet gayness,people finally stopped ignoring..._

**Pairing:**_ Sherlock/Sherlock`s all mighty brain; Sherlock/drugs; Sherlock/Sherlock`s work ; Sherlock/John. ( as the story grew, Mycroft fell in love with Sherlock. Sorry people,this is semi sexual-mind fucking incest. I had no idea,boys,wanted me to tell all of you,about this.I am truly hurt. It was our secret.)_

_**Rating:** M_

_**Rating explanations**:_

_For heavens sake,people,some things are quite obvious, this is a non profit and non religious piece of fan service._

_Some __of people in this fic are gay;GAY means they have the right to love and do what ever they want with whoever they want and be non-judgmentally happy,about it,_

_That`s the freaking reason we have democracy and free will._

_And it is not porn. And I personally have no interest in corrupting any young minds out there,Disney channel does that, gracefully._

_For all young perverted women out there,enjoy. For all young perverted men out there,leave a comment,being a woman myself I can only imagine how a male mind works through stages of growing up._

_For any other gender and non gender people...hello._

_Yes,this is a Gay/Lesbian/Transgender/Multigendered/Asexual/Sexual/Mindfucked/everything else/ fandom friendly fiction._

_Please,if you are leaving a comment,don`t be stupid about it._

**Author's Note:**_ Hello,again,people._

_I am Russian and Russians are physically obsessed with Sherlock Holmes,every house owns at least two sets of books and at least one set of video-series about the great detective.I learned reading on "The study in Red" and remember the great Holmes movies constantly on the rerun, daytime on the After-Sovjet television._

_I can say one thing:Sherlock is totally gay for John and the other way around,as well._

_This was planed to be a short,little story in six pieces explaining how Sherlock feels and thinks...the plan changed._

_A Frankenstein was born._

_Never mind me._

_Enjoy._

**_ P.S_**_ I promise,I really do,when the story is finished and my beta has time...I am going to make it up to you,for leaving you alone with a progressive madness on your hands._


	2. Chapter 1

Many have assumed otherwise, but Sherlock Holmes knew perfectly well that he was falling in love with John Watson.

He accepted the fact, prioritizing his work as usual.

He was married with it, after all. He truly loved the concept of a marriage, and a home, and honey pancakes in the morning.

He was just, not, very well suited for it.

He knew as well that, his dear brother lost that concept at a very young age, since then enjoying rubbing that into Sherlock's soul.

Or he used every opportunity, trying.

Once it hurt.

Then, everything turned into a game.

It was their sad reality, their safety net.

They loved each other through.

In a way two monsters enjoy playing around.

They however, did not expect John Watson in their lives.

A new connection, tugging inside of Sherlock, growing it`s poisonous roots through him.

Mycroft knew. He always knows.

There is an unwritten rule in politics.

Knowledge is everything.

It is a paradox.

Mycroft was a big, proud, sensitive paradox.

But he knew; everything.

Sherlock knew too, but the boy hoped he was wrong.

They both understood that "project John Watson" would never end well.

They both knew "John Watson" would hurt.

Hurt tremendously.

Sherlock saw that smile, gentle light in Mycroft`s eyes, offering to kill John.

He kindly declined.


	3. Chapter 2

Sherlock never really needed a flat mate to begin with; his reasons for asking universe for one were wage and illogical.

He was probably bored.

Mrs. and Mr. Holmes had two sons they were very proud of, whom they left everything they owned before leaving the country in a hurry.

So there they were, Mycroft age 14 and Sherlock age 9, standing on the terrace of a castle watching the Queen drink her tea, a nameless girl by her side explaining why the country couldn't afford to offer them any other guardian.

Apparently their parents were supplying British underground army for decades.

And basically; the chances of their return were very slim.

The boys adapted.

Sherlock was 13, reading on the couch, when he was kidnapped for the first time.

The kidnapper was one of the drug lords, ego busted addict with a smaller army on his hands.

Later that day Sherlock was surprised by the rage, his older brother radiated.

His mind wondering if it was the vase Mycroft adored smashed to pieces or the amount of drugs stuffed into Sherlock`s system.

23 gram of cocaine, a plant dried and cooked, mixed with fine powder, a mixture of sand and salts. Not the finest quality, probably some crushed concrete in there, instead.

Sherlock barely remembered that month.

Later, he was told, the doctor who managed to save him was quite full of himself.

None of his inner organs were removed and all of his limbs remained intact.

He could move again within next half the year.

With each movement, the craving addiction overflowing his essence.

The Queen was upset.

Sherlock was brilliant, his tutors amazed by the memory and skill of the child.

Sherlock was equally bored, useless degrees lying in a box, somewhere in the closet.

Mycroft did everything he could.

Consisted visits, every afternoon around eight and a tasteful little box always supplied, beside a piece of Lemon cake, the guilty pleasure both men shared since their mother showed them Holmes`s secret recipe.

Sherlock baking skills was another secret they kept to themselves.

Busy with work and research, brothers enjoyed a few hours in silence.

Somehow, Sherlock never really got involved with managing the work, apart from basics.

Considering some of the looks Mycroft gave him, it was his wish.

Sherlock being Mycroft's beloved, little brother.


	4. Chapter 3

Sherlock never really got involved with people, either.

There were many reasons, he would rather not discuss, but none of them was a secret.

Knowing his reasons was mostly the question of perspective.

Some people knew, other were clueless.

Mycroft knew, of course.

The girl assistant at the lab knew; her own bruises still colorful under the lab coat.

Sherlock never mentioned them out loud, putting the first pebble into their friendship.

Their relationship wasn`t perfect...

The girl, hurting, her mind wondering.

Later Sherlock realized, her name was the problem.

Of course he remembered it.

And he was, sorry, since then; addressing the girl with her given name.

Molly wasn`t one of the nameless girls, he learned.


	5. Chapter 4

The few of Sherlock`s relationships always turned out weird.

The one with his brother was a mess.

Molly`s was an awkward, silent one.

His clients rarely knew he existed, the boy observing them from a far.

His enemies never really reached the moment where they could laugh together.

Police were ignorant, ignoring him.

His parents were dead alike.

His relationship with drugs was the most stable. Safe. Pure. His mind craving for the treat.

It was wrong, of course.

He knew what drugs did and knew of results they would bring.

He was just a kid; he lied to himself, throwing out another needle.

The world, finally, silent…


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock grew up.

His arms and legs grew longer.

He made a name for himself, too.

Black market couldn`t simply ignore a "hero of justice", commonly found sitting on one of the couches in their own drug house.

The boy was always sickly pale, with long dark curly hair, fully dressed on warmest summer days.

He was a good customer, paying good and keeping clean.

He never spoke, or touched anyone.

Watching people, with a pair of eyes whores spoke about to each other.

The bright blue gaze; lucid through amounts of drugs enough to twist half the street in an orgy.

The pretty boy wasn`t interested, they assumed.


	7. Chapter 6

Sherlock hated pets and women.

Both disliked him, in return.

At first, they were in love, especially cats.

Their passionate crave for his attention, his touch.

They were so needy…

The man grew bored within hours.

Mycroft laughing as yet another woman marched through their garden, nude.

Sherlock had a thing, for outdoors.

Something about sunlight, and grass between his toes.

A bitter cup of tea with a piece of lemon was a tradition.

Sherlock yearning for a coffee; feeling like a naughty child.

Mycroft knew, of course.

But it was always his, Egyptian sheets; the boy was wrapped in, equally nude as his infuriated mistress.

Mycroft`s lovely sheets, all wet and greenish.

Mycroft had a thing for clean bed wear with a slight sense of jasmine.

Somehow the man always allowed Sherlock into his bed,right after.

Allowing Sherlock to destroy another set of clean sheets, letting him fall asleep, the nakedness of ivory skin of his shoulders keeping Mycroft awake till morning.

* * *

Author note: This chapter is a thank you,for the review a person called BC wrote. You made me smile.=)Thank you.


	8. Chapter 7

Every time Sherlock though of the word, his deeply scientific soul was over flown with emotion.

A word he stumbled across every time he passed by a letter T.

T. Tenderness.

Sherlock needed tenderness.

Something Mycroft, couldn´t buy for him.

Something Molly never had.

Something John radiated.

He needed John.


	9. Chapter 8

First time Sherlock had sex with a man, Mycroft was watching them.

Everything planned by bizarre plotting, one brother winning over another.

Mycroft enjoyed himself.

Sherlock`s compensation was his first dose of liquid nicotine.

Sherlock was sixteen.


	10. Chapter 9

Sherlock fascinated people.

All kind of people… Rich noblemen as well as homeless students, men and women...

Sherlock was a favorite.

Many doors and beds opened for a beautiful teenager, ability Mycroft used for his own advantage.

Sherlock and Mycroft had a deal, once an ambitious idea, turning into a powerful tool.

An idea, their father used to joke about.

The world lying,helpless at their feet.

Mycroft chose to rule it.

Sherlock chose to become an untouchable.

The boy proclaimed dead at the age of nineteen, his identity erased.

Something they celebrated with a Lemon pie.


	11. Chapter 10

The realization that he needed a substitute drug for cocaine came when Sherlock`s addiction started affecting his work.

His hands too cold, failing to dissect a standard single eye.

Operation turning too slimy for Sherlock`s taste.

That insight was hurtful.

Sherlock destroying another set of Mycroft`s sheets by climbing into the bed, his hands still dirty.

Sometimes, Mycroft felt a warm note of affection, watching the smartest man alive laying helpless and asleep, pretty limbs spread across the mattress.

His brother was impossible.

But somehow, the arrangement suited them.

They never thought of getting a second bed for Sherlock, either.

The boy refused sleeping, since the youngest of age, nesting in a lather armchair placed strategically in-between kitchen and the lab.

Loosening the tie and climbing into the bed beside Sherlock, Mycroft promised to take care of anything and everything, tomorrow.

Hating the thin worry lines, almost invisible under Sherlock`s thick eyelashes.

Falling asleep, he smiled.

Feeling as Sherlock turned over, wide awake as always.

The boy clenching to him, soft broken breaths mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

Breathing in the slight sense of jasmine, long wavy lock the color of dark chocolate spread on his pillow, Mycroft felt weak, acceptably weak.

The meaning of Sherlock`s happiness in his, personal inner world, was nothing they needed to discuss.

Very few things were more obvious.

Letting Sherlock sleep off the melancholy was the only acceptable of many unacceptable things Mycroft could do, anyway.

Wishing some rest for both of them.


	12. Chapter 11

Some people bring out the best in each other.

John Watson could bring out the expressive, laughing arrogance in Sherlock Holmes.

And something else, something Sherlock liked disliking.

Another big T.

Trust.

Sherlock trusted John, from the second he saw him. He felt he could.

A habit Mycroft hated in his brother.

Mycroft hated many habits Sherlock had.

Like slipping into his office and waiting.

His invisible little brother…

Money wasted on surveillance, all for nothing.

Sherlock never came, for a chat.

Once he was there, tending a diseased human brain, claiming to have found a cure.A contagious, deadly, infected piece of meat, Sherlock nursed.

The only child in history who agitated forward world piece thanks to petrifying horror.

At the end of the day British governments send a boat with vaccine to Indonesia, fulfilling their part of the contract. Sherlock Holmes used the antidote and wrote a paper about artificial extraction of disease from proteins.

It was a happy ending.

This time, Sherlock was smoking.

Mycroft signed, moving to close the door behind him.

A nameless girl glancing up in silence, her perfect olive colored hand sliding down the back of Mycroft walking companion, leading the elderly man away.

This time Sherlock was whispering, words filled with panic, violent context, fears.

Mycroft understood; walking forward the only blind spot in the room, his brother leaning against the wall, the man freezing to the touch.

Drugs were not the reason.

Drugs calmed Sherlock down.

People never did.

Mycroft was gentle.

Pale exposed neck, tasting like sunlight, trembling shoulders, tears.

Mycroft really hated John Watson, from the second he heard about him.

* * *

Author note: Yey! I have my first follower. Hello. Thank you.

Hm. Seriously Sherlock/Mycroft were not planed as a pairing...I really should write them in,through.


	13. Chapter 12

The news of their mother`s death, came in a letter.

The woman was in pain and struggle.

Her killer, undiscovered.

Violet Holmes, Sherrinford by the birth, was a mesmerizing noble girl, a petite creature with wide grey eyes and the bone structure of a doll.

Sherlock looked just like her.

Their father was a Norwegian born soldier, calling himself Steven.

Steven or Siger, had a tough life, his manners rude and his face in scars, moving on from actual fighting into the selling under Violets supervision.

They were a good family, loving one.

After the news, boys were silent.

Not quite upset, but silent.

For a year and four weeks; on a Wednesday morning, around 8 AM Mycroft bounced his teaspoon of the table.

Sherlock frowning.

Taking their revenge was a matter of buying plane tickets.

Finding the man responsible, took a little bit more scheming.

And, time.

Sherlock got himself a pair of nasty sunburns on the trip, disliking India since then.


	14. Chapter 13

Awkwardness was the high note in their relationship.

John never noticed, of course.

John never understood the difference between stuff that matters and the rest.

John couldn`t see small details or the half looks.

John couldn`t understand them.

He could feel them.

The man was adorable.

His angst was adorable too.

Such issues were all, too easy to crack.

His psychologist the one he returned from, sulking, his cloths smelling of artificial kindness.

His psychologist mistook the man's boredom for a depression.

Social norms holding such passion back.

And Sherlock…

A smoking rabbit; waiting for Alice to jump through the hole.

Sherlock knew everything about boredom.


	15. Chapter 14

Mycroft was watching Sherlock.

He was restless.

He felt restless.

Sherlock was naked.

Again.

The boy was reading.

A human cocoon with one slender leg stretched out on the couch.

Wrapped in Mycroft`s poor, tormented sheets, again.

The book was mathematical; the fragile simplicity of the mind.

Mycroft was tired; he was exhausted and he was irritated with Sherlock.

For Goddess` sake; Sherlock had cloths.

Sherlock had a lot`s of cloths.

Sherlock knew he had cloths.

Sherlock had his own rooms, too.

He had his lab, and the kitchen, not to forget the mess he made of their living room and terrace.

Sherlock was not a child anymore.

Mycroft wasn`t secretive with his affections either.

Most certainly, Sherlock knew.

Sherlock knew of his liking's.

He had to.

Dropping his jacked on the bed, Mycroft leaned forward, letting his fingers rest on the the dark locks of his brother, tugging gently.

Sherlock froze, a questioning small sound, slipping from this throat.

Mycroft tensed, bravery tingling at his guts.

Without a warning the book dropped, calm blue gaze watching as Mycroft turned pink, his cheeks burning.

Their first kiss was surprising.

Sherlock`s invisible smile as Mycroft gasped.

His breathing hitched. Sherlock`s lips on his, locks slipping away from his gasp.

Sherlock himself, escaping.

Mycroft left breathless in his solitude.

By the morning, the shoulder long heap of hair was gone, Sherlock smiling, locks curling right behind his ears.

Just like that,another game began.


	16. Chapter 15

John was a quite normal man, he believed himself.

He always made an effort.

He was always good, tried to be, since forever.

His wounds were always wide open.

His sister`s agony.

Their parent`s hopelessness.

The future.

The war.

Death.

Life.

John was afraid to admit it, but…

He knew he was scared.

Scared and turned on. By life. By death. He was alive.

Truly alive.

The thrill of surviving.

Nothing could compare.

Nothing could, until John Watson met the Holmes brothers.

Two different dimensions…two worlds colliding…

The shades of blue, swallowed him, dragged him into the deeps of the sea.

Theatrical importance.

And Sherlock.

Sherlock made the transmission easier, because everything was about Sherlock.


	17. Chapter 16

When the weather was cold, the tip of Sherlock`s nose turned bright red.

The young genius was oblivious to this fact.

Mycroft knew.

When the weather was hot, asphalt steaming.

Sherlock was too busy wining to realize his brother's reaction on the white fabric of his shirt, hugging Sherlock as a second skin.

When the weather was rainy, the impossible child took a walk.

Throwing the drenched through cloths on the stairs.

When it snowed, Sherlock was asleep.

Always.

Twisted human "ball"; all legs and neck.

A pair of feet resting on top of an armchair.

When Sherlock was off drugs, he turned scary.

When Sherlock was on drugs, the boy was fading through the floor.

Food and cocaine, didn`t mix well, apparently...

Food and work didn`t either.

Work and drugs, did.

Twice a month Sherlock crashed and ate and slept.

Cases cleared out, the world saved.

Mycroft did a study of Sherlock sleeping habits,in college.

Cat naps.

The boy actually falling over unconscious…


	18. Chapter 17

John wasn`t the problem…

The problem was "John".

Somehow Mycroft felt as a parent.

A petrified parent; letting John move in with Sherlock.

John wasn´t ready…How could he be?

Mycroft was worried.

Still.

Letting Sherlock move out was another question.

Sherlock belonged to him.

He marked him.

Sometimes, when the sounds, turned into a blur…

Mycroft felt as a snake, ready to creep out of his suit from jealousy, the feeling dripping off his essence.

John was an intruder.

Stranger.

Lost, little warrior.

Still.

The man was clueless.

And Sherlock always took whatever he wanted.

"John" was the problem, a little perfect toy living inside sociopathic brain.

John was not.

Sherlock couldn`t stand it, within a week.

Returning, early in the morning, silent and guilty, slipping into Mycroft`s bed.

In between cases or not… Mycroft was glad.


	19. Chapter 18

Clenching his teeth, Mycroft thought that shagging the daylight out of Sherlock would be easier.

And faster.

The woman was agonizing.

In fact, shagging the daylight out of Sherlock was a wonderful idea.

The boy certainly deserved it.

The whole arrangement wasn`t really unexpected…

Sudden, yes.

Social services giving a fuck about surveillance and dogs and common sense, barging into their house in the middle of the day…

Claiming their rights on Sherlock, his, Sherlock.

Mycroft`s temper rising.

The lady was furious, swinging something through the room, her hair reeking vanilla.

The child needed company and friends, she claimed.

Contemporality. Morals. Discipline.

Sweet words.

Old hag.

Sherlock way out of her reach; sitting on top of the stairs, hugging his knees.

Watching Mycroft, a reflection, the room puzzled together, optical invisibility, Mycroft`s twenty first birthday present.

Mycroft smiled, sensing something warm bubbling inside of him.

Did he really expect to be abandoned?

At any given time?

The women, silenced, a bird blinking in surprise, Mycroft`s hand slapping her cheek.

Mycroft was not a violent man.

Mycroft was a careful man.

His lips stretching, the woman shocked, stumbling on a chair.

Mycroft wasn`t a very dangerous man or a partically scary one; he was still in learning.

Lilting one of Sherlock`s cigarette, one`s he carried around but never smoked himself, the man relaxed.

Calling out for Sherlock, his voice cold and demanding.

The woman scared now.

Sherlock confused.

The boy coming down, dressed in jeans and shirt, bare feet, Mycroft`s lazy cloths.

Mycroft pulling Sherlock into his arms, the cigarette shared.

His hands resting on slender waist, over sized shirt slipping off one of the bony shoulders.

The woman ignored and in awe.

Mycroft smiled, his teeth sinking into the pale skin, Sherlock moaning silently.

The woman jumping up in horror, running away, her purse pressed to her chest, deep blush on her cheeks.

Brothers sharing a loving smile.


	20. Chapter 19

Sherlock couldn`t handle some things well.

Memories of their mother, was one of those things.

She was the woman of their life, their princess and their queen.

She was dead now.

People constantly reminding them, about their "big tragedy", pitying them, the looks, the temper of their voice, blank uncaring expression, watery eyes.

The funeral.

Sherlock hated it, Mycroft grew angry.

Their mother was for them to treasure.

The woman.

Their obsession.

Dead.

But alive.

Sherlock, avoiding his own reflection for years.


	21. Special 1

**Author note:**I changed the image, do you like it? It's a Code-G picture that reminded me of Sherlock/Mycroft relationship through their teens...

* * *

_John knew many things._

_Some hunted him, still._

_Others, he knew, should never be seen._

_Mycroft walk was one of the things John wished to keep, somehow unseen._

_Putting his tea down, the doctor stared._

_He could do very little else._

_Mycroft looked young, for once like his brother, dressed like a man, without his jacket._

_Angry and flushed, he marched through the room._

_Talking a language John never knew._

_Something went wrong then, a feeling inside._

_Sherlock purring; a sound of some kind, looking like always, bothered and bored the man continued reply in a purr._

_John shivered then, his mind going blank, saved by a woman, grasping his hand._

_Nameless girl with pretty curves; an ugly white lab coat and a plastic bag…_

_Dress the Sherlock, she asked with a smile, John`s mind wondering somewhere else._

_Wracking his brain, words twisted together, John attempted a smile, girl moving over._

_Sherlock looked up, a clueless child, stretching a hand out for his gown._

_In horror John stared, back at the hand, resisting an urge to run far away._

_Mycroft's lips twitched; a knowing smile._

_Taking the fabric from John`s poor care._

_The kitchen table, o, beloved tool, saved our doctor from being a fool._

_Foolish embarrass and weak human body, a hidden wish turning into desire._

_The woman was silent, well trained to obey, Mycroft nodding her away._

_As Sherlock wined, the curve of his lips, the boy produced another small purr._

_Mycroft stared as well as the doctor, wishing for something they both could relate to._

_Raising an eyebrow Sherlock looked up, two men blushing at his sight._

_Parting his lips the boy laughed, abnormal low sound, Sherlock knew well about._

_What happened next, is another thing John tries to keep, somehow unseen._

_Mycroft however enjoyed the moment._

_Watching his brother; resisting the bother to slam the pale body against nearest surface._

_The devilish child dressed in a costume._

* * *

**Happy Halloween!**


	22. Chapter 20

Watching the door close, Mycroft was brilliant at finding excused.

And it`s not like Sherlock cared.

He never cared.

A new pile of papers on Mycroft`s desk by the morning were probably not worth it, nothing but another key opening a tiny door.

But Mycroft was not made out of stone.

On a bad day, he believed he was in love with his brother.

The truth was, he wasn`t.

Or maybe he was.

Sherlock knew all the answers, and the little prick never cared enough to say them out loud.

Nor did he care for talking, walking around the house; silent for weeks.

On a really bad day Mycroft missed his brother`s voice enough to bring him, his drugs by himself.

The little squirm of delight and pleasure, Sherlock`s eyelids heavy.

Pleasure they sometimes shared.

If they were in love, Mycroft was the one who was supposed to do stuff.

He had experience and size and age.

But Sherlock just laughed at him, every time Mycroft tried, silent and smiling little brother.

Pale skin covered with marks made by the hands of other men.

The deep blue filled with sadness, Mycroft never understood.


	23. Chapter 21

Day 17.

"Why would I need you…" Sherlock hummed finally closing his eyes .

"No reason at all".

John closed the door, words still ringing in his ears.

"Why would you need me…" he whispered back, leaning his suddenly warm head to the surface of the door.

Day 19.

And then the silence came.

John could feel the pressure building up, words burning him from inside.

How he wished for a quiet life, how he begged for silence laying his face down in the sand, metallic taste on his skin from a young man, still a child that was blown up in sticky peaces right beside him.

Now, silence was his enemy, Sherlock watching him a second longer, bright living second.

Watching him.

In silence.

The man turning around, swapping Mycroft`s sheets, one naked pale shoulder sticking out.

Day 23.

Frustration was almost abusive, John`s body reacting, pushing the taller man into the wall.

Making him gasp in surprise, questions fill his eyes.

The sight of milky white skin under his hand blooming up with a bruise was like a cold shower, John stepping back.

Sherlock confused.

"John?"

"We…I can't do this, Sherlock. I cannot let you do this to yourself"

"John!"Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock hurrying past them right into Mycroft`s bedroom.

Day 34.

Finally, Sherlock came down and ate.

Food.

His first full meal in over a month.

Irene Adler set free.

World saved.


	24. Chapter 22

Private school

Sherlock visited once.

It was enough for Moriarty.

One phone call

One madman

One umbrella poking a smug cheek

Mycroft catching their stalker in the dark

"I am his equal!" the child screamed

Young. Obsessive. Clean.

Clever.

But never surprising.

"Leave it" Sherlock called.

It.

Sounds of violin chasing Jim out, like fire

Sherlock giggling into thin air; boring week with aggressive flu turning into adventure.


	25. Chapter 23

Molly loved her father.

Admired him

Adored every word he said.

Treasured every memory of his touch

Even the last one

With ropes and metal

When she stopped being his child

And turned into a piece of meat

Female piece of meat

With a leaver inside

Healthy leaver, size 4

Meant for another child

Rich child

Sherlock saved her

Sherlock moved her

Sherlock was silent

He was there.

He gave her books to read and papers to write.

He was there when she cried

Cried as her father's neck broke

A man who looked right at her

A disappointed man

Because Molly was found, safe, alive…


	26. Chapter 24

Mycroft wasn`t proud of his parenting

He had excuses

Hitting Sherlock wasn`t easy

He was an easily bruised kid

Stubborn, too

Angsty.

And completely calm in the morning

They never argued, slammed doors and cried.

They had nothing to say

Their conscious growing numb

Growing less human

Less normal

Mycroft was killing people.

With a pen

Gun

Hands

Slowly

Knowingly

With justice and without

Sherlock was catching those who got away.

Screen light

Hunting

Just a child

His little brother

Hitting Sherlock was unpleasant

Their hands stained with blood.

Blue eyes growing grey and empty

Pity. Shame. Aggression.

Broken ribs and noses, scars.

Iron in their kisses.

Mycroft wasn`t proud.

But it was worth it.


	27. Chapter 25

It was Mycroft`s 30th birthday

He was turning old

His empire perfect

That spring his wife left him

Pretty thing

She never grew used to his life

Or knew half of it

"Minor position in government" wasn`t working

Wives wanted details

He owned two houses now

Separate bedrooms

And a three year old leaving with his mother

Mycroft was a bad father.

Neglectful

He was a bad brother, too.

Sherlock ignored this crisis.

Sherlock stole him.

His favorite suit stripped off him, somewhere in Middle East.

Plane

Sand

Spices

One credit card

Trap.

They met their father.

He was married with an Indonesian woman, now.

Sherlock knew.

Kept secrets

Saved their child

Olivia

Healthy; strong; pretty

Their baby sister

Safe in jungle

Raised as a princess

Mycroft was frustrated

Happy

Back in China, Sherlock hired a stripper

Long legged creature

Hiding in lace and silk

High class

Male

They watched

Closing the door after performance.

No questions asked

Reusing silky gown left behind.

Bite marks on his shoulder.


	28. Chapter 26

Mycroft never asked about the journals.

Sherlock wrote in journals

Sending them

Now Mycroft knew

Olivia spoke Chinese

French

Perfect English

And a language created by Sherlock.

Their language

Shared with Mycroft

Sherlock was educating her, since birth

Raising her

Mycroft couldn`t be trusted

Not until their enemies knew their places.

Olivia was not to be another victim of the underworld.

Her arrival to London lacking drama.

School uniform suited her.

Chocolate eyes and porcelain skin

She accepted her future as their heir.

Spending every other season with her brothers

She liked Molly

And polar bears

And sneaking in into Mycroft's office for the ice cream

She was a fast learner.

A Holmes to the core


	29. Chapter 27

The question was asked once

If they were lovers

Sherlock and Mycroft walking through the office

Important little man

Gay himself

Were they lovers?

Lovers hired rooms and took farewells

Had awkward phone calls and secrets

Lovers had sex

Lovers were confident

Lovers never sat together through wedding receptions

Sleepless nights

Funerals

Brothers could never be lovers.

"Yes" Sherlock answered

Mycroft's worries washed away

"We are not." Pale hand slipping into Mycroft's

Curious little man left behind.


	30. Chapter 28

It took John a week to realize something

Inbetween cases week

Realization came at 7 AM, in his kitchen

With a squeak

A sound doctor never produced before

And a butt naked man

With a size of

Shoulders

John only seen among bears.

The man was George.

Just George cooked them a meal of eggs

Talking of his mammas plum jam

Just George was a circus performer

And caring for his

Guests

Was not on Sherlock's to do list

At 8.00 Sherlock was up

Walking through the front door

Asking for his coffee

Two sugars

Black

Apparently just because nude friendly companions spend a night in your bed; it does not guarantee your presence there.

Just George gone, with the wind

John pouting about gallon of milk

Acrobat absorbed


End file.
